Chapter Fifty-Seven
D acha’s head hung outside their hut, suspended by its hair from a peg Ardahl had hammered there, with absent-minded disregard. Indeed, it dangled from one of the braids Dacha had no doubt put there before going off to maim, maul, and conquer. Which, Ardahl could not help but feel, was only fitting.
He did not want the trophy. He did not want the acclaim. He wanted to be alone with those he loved—with his mam, and most especially with Liadan.
He had not touched her yet, had not so much as brushed his fingers across hers. He still had blood on his hands—on most of him, to be fair. And so as he had done so often since he’d come to take Conall’s place, he went around the side of the hut and tried to scrub it off, a task much harder than one might imagine and one that took him back, back to the day he had stood covered in his dearest friend’s blood.
Life was made up of circles, he thought. It all came round again and again. Birth, death, and to birth again after a time spent in Tír na nóg . The gods’ cauldron of rebirth spat them out and they returned to this beautiful, troubled, treacherous world to—
What? Learn? Love.
Surely it was all about the love.
Liadan followed him around the side of the hut as she had so many times before. As he’d known she would. Their eyes met, and he thought, If she ever looked at me that way out among the tribe, everyone would know the truth.
And he thought about circles, and how such a love as theirs must endure. That even if they could not be together now, they would be, someday.
Someday. Because a circle had no beginning and no end. Neither did their love.
“Let me do that for ye.” She took the cloth from him, dabbed it into the pot of soap. Just for the chance to touch him, as he knew. And when she did, when her fingers met his, the contact felt so intense, so complete, he knew that, aye, in truth, he needed no more.
“Ye must see the healer.”
“I ha’ seen him. I would far rather ye tended me, Liadan.”
Their eyes met. Memory united them—the slide of skin on naked skin. Lips fused to lips in a storm of effortless belonging.
“That, aye, I will do, though I do not know that I can push your mam aside. Ardahl, I was so afraid.”
“Aye, but”—with one scraped hand, he touched her chin gently—“I am here. Liadan, I will always be here.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. She nodded. “Still, naught is promised.”
“Naught is promised but that I will belong to ye, for eternity.”
She caught her breath. “Come inside. I will finish wi’ tending ye. And—”
She wanted to kiss him. She wanted it as desperately as he wanted it. Yet Mam was in the hut. So very hard for them to be alone.
Liadan towed him inside to the comforting gloom, and pushed him down beside the fire.
“There is food,” Mam said, “and drink. And I—” She gave her son a long look. “I ha’ an errand elsewhere.”
She did not, not at such a time as this. But Ardahl would not argue it, and silently blessed her as she slipped out through the door.
Liadan came into his arms. The simple motion failed to describe what it lent—an answer to all the longing that had beset him when he was away from her. She kissed him, and the terrible need that had been inside him all the while eased. Something so basic as breathing, he thought as he held her fast in his arms. As the blood rushing through his veins. As simple and as profound as loving.
Loving this one woman.
“Here, do no’ weep,” he told her, feeling the tears wet her face.
“They are tears o’ joy. Ardahl.” She drew away far enough to gaze into his eyes. “I discovered somewhat while ye were away, when my fear burned its brightest. Love demands what it demands, and for me that is your presence. If I can ne’er be wi’ ye as your wife, at least I can be near ye. I ask only leave to watch the smile come and go on your face, the way the sun pricks red from your hair, the way ye lift a sword. See the thoughts flicker in your eyes. Hear your voice, your laughter. Spend my life near to ye.”
“And I to ye. My very soul clamors to be your own.”
“It is my own.”
They kissed again there beside the hearthplace, knowing they might have only moments before life once more intruded. And he told himself it was enough to hold this woman for even a brief time. For was not time a circle also? And might they not have other lifetimes?
When his mam returned, she wore a curious look on her face. They sat apart by then, Ardahl with his eyes half closed, absorbing the fact that Liadan remained beside him.
Mam called them forth. “Ardahl, son, ye must come. The chief has stopped me on my way. He bade me tell ye that he needs to see ye at once.”
Ardahl’s eyes flew open. “Now? ’Tis no’ another attack? Dacha has not the men.”
“Nay, no’ that. He is outside the warriors’ hall, with the druids and some other men.”
When Ardahl arose, it was with a groan, and Liadan had to help him, her shoulder beneath his arm. They went forth so with her supporting him as she would a brother. And indeed, Ardahl fancied he caught a glimpse of Conall from the corner of his eye.
Smiling.
Folk stared as they went by. Some followed. And indeed, a good number of people stood out in front of the hall when they reached it.
Dusk had fallen by then, upon this day that had held so much. Too much. The last of the gloaming lit the sky with soft radiance, and Ardahl’s heart leaped in his chest with the love he felt for this place.
He turned his gaze on the people awaiting them. The first person he saw was Brasha. She stood to one side with her father, and she was weeping into her hands.
And Chief Fearghal with his wife beside him. Aye, both the surviving druids wearing grave, serious expressions.
What was this? What, on this night when he desired only peace?
“Och, by the goddess Brigid,” Liadan whispered in his ear. “What now?”
And then Ardahl saw Cathair stepping out to stand shoulder to shoulder with Fearghal. His heart sank violently. Some new horror, then. Some accusation cooked up between Cathair and Brasha, perhaps.
Some penance he would have to bear.
He and Liadan stepped up with Mam at their side. Ardahl raised his gaze to that of his chief, who stirred suddenly and held up his hand, stilling any murmurs from those gathered.
Into the clear night air, he declared, “It has come to my ears there has been a grave miscarriage of justice. We are gathered here this night to put it right.”
Ardahl tensed and felt Liadan go rigid at his side.
“Not long since, we lost one o’ our best young men. Conall MacAert perished on the training field, and the blame fell upon this man, Ardahl MacCormac. His closest friend.” Fearghal glanced at the two grim-faced druids. “A sentence was imposed, as dictated by the highest of our most sacred laws. Ardahl MacCormac would carry the blame for the death o’ his friend and would henceforth take Conall’s place and live out the balance o’ his life.”
Tamald stepped forward, his eyes meeting Ardahl’s. “So it is,” he declared. “Much has transpired since then, but Ardahl MacCormac has carried this blame.
“Ardahl MacCormac,” he called out almost melodiously into the dark, “just recently ye did come to me and ask me to rescind this punishment due to an injustice.”
“I did,” Ardahl managed to croak.
“I told ye I could no’ do so without the main witness to Conall’s death confirming the injustice.”
“Ye did.”
“And so he has done.”
What?
Cathair stepped forward from Fearghal’s side.
His wounds, too, had been tended. The linen bandages, like his pale hair, reflected the light from the torches at the front of the hall. His face, though, appeared still paler, and might have been carved from stone.
“Ardahl MacCormac,” he announced for all to hear, “I stand here to confess I ha’ done ye great ill. Both ill thoughts and ill wishes I ha’ aimed against ye.” He hesitated an instant. “And false accusations.
“In the battle just past, ye saved my life.” Cathair’s eyes met Ardahl’s in the flickering light. “I would no’ be standing here to speak if your sword—Conall’s sword had no’ been so strong. ’Twas I who made sure certain words were poured in Conall’s ear before he died, to poison him against ye. To turn his heart to anger. I thought that through jealousy he would remove ye from my path, that I might claim the place o’ first among us.”
He did not name Brasha or her part in the lies and deception, but her tears said much.
Softly now, Cathair concluded, “’Tis I who should carry the shame ye ha’ carried. ’Tis I who caused Conall’s death and ’twas his own hand that landed the dirk in his heart. I beg ye, master druids, lift the sentence from this man.”